


At the Hour of Our Death

by Parda



Series: Blood Cousins [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: death of Pastor Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parda/pseuds/Parda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunters pay a final tribute to Pastor Jim, and a some-time janitor prepares for a coming war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Hour of Our Death

Whenever John Winchester dropped his two sons off for a visit—be it for a weekend, a week, or months at a time—Father Jim Murphy tried his best to give the boys a good home and a normal life. That meant hot meals, regular baths, homework, sports, even a Christmas pageant one year.

Dean, almost twelve, utterly refused to wear a costume and instead helped the janitor, Mr. Lucas, out backstage. Young Sammy dressed up as a lamb. At the reception afterward, Father Jim was pleased to see them playing with Nate (the Archangel Gabriel) and his twin sister Ruth (Mary the Mother of God) and some other children from the play. The Winchester boys were settling in well.

John returned very early on Christmas morning, and the Winchesters left town the next day.

The years passed, and other Christmases came and went. Other children dressed up as angels and lambs for the annual Christmas pageant at St. Peter’s Church. Father Jim Murphy watched over his flock. Mr. Lukas cut the grass and shoveled snow, moved chairs and dug graves, and took care of things. Nate and Ruth grew up in their mom and dad’s house and did all the normal things: school, sports, summer camp, falling in and out of love, college, jobs. After the terrorist attacks on 9-11, Ruth joined the Marines. Mr. Lukas moved that year, down to a college in Ohio. Life in the town of Blue Earth went on.

Sam and Dean didn’t have a normal kind of life. They lived on the road and in hotels with their dad, sometimes staying with friends. They had come back to town a time or two. Sometimes their dad and Father Jim would go on hunting trips together. As the boys had gotten older, their dad had taken them along.

“Get any deer?” people would sometimes ask, but the answer would always be no. John Winchester and Jim Murphy hunted other game: werewolves, vampires, ghouls … monsters of all kinds.

So when, on a beautiful summer morning, a young woman wearing a red jacket walked into the church then looked up at Father Murphy with a sweet smile and completely black eyes, he recognized it for the demon it was. Instead of being windows to a soul, those eyes were doorways to hell.

He ran downstairs to his cache of weapons, but the demon followed and broke down the doors. It stood in the doorway, its face in shadow, its blonde hair a mockery of a halo. Behind it, crimson beads of light danced down the stairs from the stained glass window above.

“What do you want?” Father Murphy asked.

The demon walked into the room, still smiling, a silver knife in its hand. “The Winchesters.”

“I haven’t spoken to John Winchester in over a year,” Father Murphy told it, wondering why a demon would be searching for hunters by name. He backed up so his weapons were in front of him, not behind him. What could he grab and aim in time? Demons were unbelievably fast. And strong. And deadly.

It was then he truly realized that he was about to die.

Father Murphy breathed deeply and let go of his fear. The morning had been wonderful, a gift from above, and God was waiting for him to come home. “You’re wasting your time,” he told the demon. “Even I did know where they were, I’d never tell you.”

Its smile twisted into a grimace of frustrated hate. “I know.”

The silver knife flashed, and crimson beads of blood danced in the air. His blood, Father Murphy realized with some surprise. There was no pain. The scent of summer flowers lay heavy on the warm summer air. The demon in red faded away, washed out by brilliant white light, and an angel with silver wings and a face of fierce beauty appeared.

A bell started to chime, far away, like the laughter of stars.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God.” The words, said thousands of times, came easily to Father Murphy now. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

“Amen,” the angel finished for him then reached out and lay two fingers on his forehead, and the light shone about them as the bell chimed clear. The angel vanished with a feathery whisper, and now a woman stood before him, robed in blue and white, and with starry shimmers in her long brown hair. From a deep well of joy, Father Murphy found himself singing one of his favorite songs, “I wake up to the sound of music; Mother Mary comes to me.”

She smiled and joined in, in a voice that held all the harmony of the spheres, “Speaking words of wisdom: Let it be.” Then she held out her hands, saying, “Welcome home, Jimmy,” and she smiled just for him.

Father James Murphy smiled back as he took her hands and let go of his life.

### 19 June 2006 – Blue Earth, Minnesota

Mr. Lukas, in town for a visit, found Father Murphy’s body. Spatters of his blood clung like tiny red jewels to the neat collection of guns and weapons on the wall. Father Murphy had been a hunter. He’d been a scholar, too; his collection of old books had been spattered with his blood as well.

Mr. Lukas stayed calm, didn’t touch anything, just locked the doors to the church and called the police. He called Monsignor Sirk at the diocese headquarters in Winona, who then called the cardinal’s office in St. Paul, who sent a bishop to handle the funeral—and the press. Priests getting murdered in their own churches tended to attract the media. Priests with an amazing collection of knives and guns were also noteworthy.

“At least it wasn’t kiddie porn,” Mr. Lukas heard the bishop tell to the cardinal on the phone. “Research,” the bishop told the police and the media later. “Father Murphy was writing a book about his time in Vietnam.”

When the body had been taken away and the forensic investigators had given up, Mr. Lukas took down the yellow crime-scene tape and helped Arnie Torvald, the new janitor, clean up the blood. It took a while.

The church was absolutely packed for the funeral mass. They had to set up chairs downstairs. At the gravesite, the lead tenor from the choir sang _Ave Maria_ as people stepped forward to drop flowers onto the coffin then slowly walk away, past the shrine to the Holy Mother and under the lane of cedar trees. It was a beautiful service on a beautiful day. Father Murphy would have been pleased.

Mr. Lukas waited until the people were gone before he and Mr. Torvald began shoveling dirt into the grave. It was soothing work, a good way to honor the dead. They’d nearly covered the coffin with dirt when four men came to the grave.

“Can we give you a hand with that?” offered one, a burly fellow with a beard who looked uncomfortable in his suit. His companions were a mixed bunch—one bald, one tall, one black—but all with patient, watchful eyes. “We were friends of his.”

“Did you serve with him?” Mr. Lukas asked, because they had that military look about them, and you didn’t often see black and white standing side by side, even in these days.

The burly one gave him a crooked smile. “Some hunting trips, now and again. He was a good man to have at your side.” Mr. Lukas handed him the shovel, and Mr. Torvald gave his to the black man. The two worked in steady rhythm for a time, as if they were old hands at the job.

"I'll take a turn, Bobby," the bald man said when the grave was about half done.

"Here you go, Caleb," the burly one said, handing the shovel over. 

The black man gave his shovel to the tall fellow, who said, “Thanks, Rufus.” The shoveling went on.

Mr. Lukas and Mr. Torvald tidied up the rest of the grave site until the grave was filled. It was well done and neat, the dirt tamped firmly down, and Mr. Lukas took back the shovels and nodded his thanks to the four, who nodded back then walked off across the field of graves.

Back in the church, Mr. Lukas wasn’t surprised to find quite a few people kneeling in prayer. The brutal loss of their priest had hit the parish hard. In the vestibule stood the display board for Father Murphy. It had been created only a few months ago for his silver jubilee in the priesthood, and was covered with pictures going from babyhood to just last year. In the center of the montage was his portrait. He was dressed in black with the clerical collar, with that wry, faint smile of his that let you know he understood and that the penance wouldn’t be all that bad. The caption on it read: “Fr. James Patrick Murphy (1951 – 2006) _Thou art a priest forever_.”

Requiescat in pacem.

Mr. Lukas touched the center picture briefly then lifted the display board off its stand and carried it to the closet. There was a wedding at four that afternoon, and Father Murphy would want the life of the church to go on. “Joy follows sorrow,” he had often said.

The hospital volunteer would be here soon to pick up the funeral flowers so they could be rearranged into bouquets for patients. Mr. Lukas started removing the cards, reading them as he went. Nathan and Ruth and their parents had sent a spray of red and white roses with a card that said, “We miss you, Father Jim!”

“For a true comrade and a good friend,” read the card on a wreath of white calla lilies and golden roses. “From the Winchester Family – Father and Sons.”

Mr. Lukas smiled to himself, a little sadly, remembering the brothers and the father, whom he hadn’t seen in many years.

He pocketed the cards. It was time to begin.


End file.
